Avoidance Tactics
by IvanCurios
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John tries multiple times to contact Mycroft in search of answers, but Mycroft never responds. John decides to do whatever it takes and storms the Diogenes Club.


Shortly after meeting with his therapist to talk about what happened, John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on the way home and dug his phone out of his pocket.

_—Mycroft I need to talk to you_ -JW

A few weeks later, after the chip and pin machine refused to read his card at the store for the first time in a long time, John left his groceries on the machine and typed another message with shaking hands.

_—Mycroft please I need to tell you about something_ -JW

Three days later, his taxi drove him past 221B Baker Street on the way back from dinner with a lovely woman. His knuckles turned white from the death grip he had on his phone.

_—Why are you ignoring me? Do you know something?_ -JW

"Oh, who are you texting?" his date had asked him, leaning over from her seat to read the screen.

His response, "Just a colleague," didn't seem to placate her. He didn't see her again after that night.

About a month later, John happened past a homeless woman who looked familiar. She was watching him intently as he walked by, and as soon as he'd emptied the coins out of his pocket and into her cup, he turned about-face and started to storm down the street, typing furiously into his phone.

_—I swear to god Mycroft I will come into your quiet club and raise hell if you do not respond_ -JW

_—I'm on my way, hope they don't kick you out for this_ -JW

He arrived fairly quickly for being on foot, and he practically waltzed right into the Diogenes Club. "Mycroft Holmes is a bloody bastard! I won't leave until I've seen him!" he announced. Then he made his way over to a disgruntled-looking gentleman in a deep leather chair and took a knee so he was at eye-level with him.

"Hello, sir," John said loudly. "I'm Doctor John Watson, nice to meet you. Who are you? Can you point me in the direction of Mycroft Holmes?" The man shook his head nervously, withdrawing from the hand John had put out to shake. "No? Well, then." John looked around for his next victim, and he chose a younger man in a sharp suit who looked more annoyed than distressed.

"Hello, sir," he began again. "I'm Doctor John Wats—" He didn't need to finish his sentence before the man snapped his book shut and pointed to a set of double doors across the room. "'preciate it, sir," John said. The man glared. John backed away slowly, and mouthed "Sorry" to him before turning on his heel.

"So," John barked, pushing the double doors open and not bothering waiting until they were closed for his outburst. "Here you are! Perfect bloody Mycroft Holmes, can't protect his own little brother and then feeds him to the wolves!"

Mycroft was standing at the window, leaning some of his weight on his umbrella, looking at the city below. "Doctor Watson," he acknowledged stiffly without turning to face him. "How are you doing?"

John stalked over to him and very nearly reached out to grab his shoulder, to force Mycroft to look him in the eyes, but instead he stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked out the window as well. His voice was low and strained. "How dare you. Sherlock is… he's… and you have the-the _audacity_ to ask me how I'm d—" his voice failed. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Yes," Mycroft responded evenly. "What did you want me to say? It would be no use to ask how Sherlock is faring."

"Oh, bloody hell! What, are you a robot? Is that it?" John shouted, tearing his hands out of his pockets and storming over to the large bureau in the middle of the room. He gripped the edges of it tightly, partly to support himself and partly to stop himself from punching Mycroft.

The older man turned, finally moving his gaze and casting it upon John, who looked as though he were about to split in two from his upset state. "Of course not. That would be preposterous."

"How is it, then, that you don't seem to care? Tell me, Mycroft." John stood up straight once more, slowly approaching Mycroft as he spoke. "Because you spent years of your life looking after him, bribing people to spy on him, telling me to… to _take care of him_—" John could barely force those words out. "—and sod it all, Mycroft, you used your influence in whatever precisely it is that you do to protect him when he made a mess. And God knows he made messes! You more than went out of your way to try to keep Sherlock alive and well, and now that he's gone you've turned into more of a stone than he ever was or pretended to be!"

"I can see how you might think that—" Mycroft began, but John interrupted him.

"Of course you can! You can see everything!" John cried out. "But you didn't see this coming, now did you?"

Mycroft frowned. "I knew you were on your way."

"Not me! _Sherlock!_"

"Oh." Mycroft paused, looking thoughtful before responding, "Doctor Watson, certainly you must have realised that there were no great displays of affection between my brother and myself. I cared for his well-being very much whilst he was alive, but now that he has died, it's no longer a matter with which I might concern myself."

John glared up at him, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "So that's it, yeah? Sherlock's dead, so you might as well forget about him?" he accused.

Mycroft looked surprised—or at least John imagined that his eyebrows raised a little—as he backed away from John and made his way to sit down at his desk. "Not at all. I have not forgotten Sherlock. I simply cannot do anything for him anymore."

"Can't do anything for him?" John exploded, pounding his fists on the expensive, wooden surface of the bureau. "What about his reputation? What about everything the media's been running for the past five months, for the… they don't stop, you know!" Mycroft just stared back at him politely, not bothering to offer a response. "Oh, don't tell me you believe it, too? He was your_brother_, for God's sake!"

Mycroft made a sound in the back of his throat that could very well have been a stifled laugh—in derision, no doubt. "Of course not, Doctor Watson. Do you?" He gave John a tight-lipped smile and motioned for him to have a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

John sat down heavily. He stared at Mycroft for a long while, his mind racing through so many questions that he couldn't speak. "There's no way. Even when he called me—you know that he called me?" Mycroft nodded silently. "He called me. He told me, he personally, he told me that… he told me everything the press is saying is true. But I can't believe it. But why would he say that? As his last words?" John put his head in his hands.

"I don't know," he heard Mycroft saying. "But I imagine he had an awfully good reason for doing it. Perhaps he thought being angry with him would be easier than trying to grieve for him. He may have meant to spare you."

"If he meant to spare me, he wouldn't have—" John couldn't finish what he was saying. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Mycroft leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers with a rueful sort of smile. "I didn't know. It's terrible, really. The only person who could keep a secret from me was my own brother."

"So it's real, then. It's not a hoax? Some sort of… of… elaborate scam?" John asked, sitting up a bit too straight. "He's really dead?"

Mycroft's smile vanished. "I'm afraid so, Doctor. Now, if that is all, I think you have caused enough of a disturbance within the club that they would like for you to go." He motioned to his phone, which was muted but blinked brightly on several of the lines.

John looked at him seriously. "Why would he do that? I thought we had… I mean, I thought he was happy."

Mycroft leaned forward and put his elbows on the bureau and rested his chin on his fists. "Doctor Watson. John." His voice was solemn. "I do not know why he jumped. I do not know why he lied to you in his last moments. My brother's motives remain a mystery even to me, and I will admit to feeling no small amount of grief over what has happened and my failure to prevent it. However, I can assure you that he was never happier in his life than after you came along."

John swallowed hard. "But why, then?"

"There is no point in asking 'Why.' We will never know the answer. Sherlock has seen to it. We must simply move on." Mycroft paused. "Though truth be told, there is nothing simple about it. I'm afraid I cannot help you. I do not have answers any more than you do. Sherlock is dead, Doctor. It is most regrettable in every sense of the word, but he is dead, and we are not, so we must live. Do you understand me?"

John nodded slowly, looking at his hands. "Thank you, Mycroft." He stood, and a twinge of pain shot up his leg. He winced. "I suppose I won't be seeing you again, either."

Mycroft sniffed and focused his attention on the phone lines. "Goodbye, Doctor."

John limped slightly in his retreat. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," he said softly, pushing one of the doors open. He made his way out and to the street, hailing a taxi. He slid in, letting out a long, weary sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

"Where to, mate?" He gave his address to the driver, and the car pulled away.

"Goodbye," he whispered again—in defeat or in sadness, he couldn't tell.


End file.
